


the blackened afternoon

by lucyswriting



Series: bellamy & clarke's cocoon [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canon Universe, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Sleeping Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 19:53:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10043513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucyswriting/pseuds/lucyswriting
Summary: Occurs between 4x03 and 4x04. A continuation of "let's go back to our cocoon," but kind of works as a standalone. Clarke wakes up after falling asleep in Bellamy's arms. First kiss. T rating only for use of expletives lol.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this got posted a lot later than i wanted but here it is! a continuation of my first fic, "let's go back to our cocoon. title taken from the same song.

Clarke wakes first. She comes out of it slowly, pins and needles subsiding in her limbs. She has apparently moved in her sleep: pressed against something firm, a steady beat thrumming against her forehead. Her fingers tighten in the fabric, soft and familiar, beneath her hands as she tries to tilt her head upward. There’s a slight resistance—a pressure at her hairline, something pointed digging. 

If there wasn’t such an overwhelming feeling of safety here in this darkness, Clarke might have jerked her head up and rolled away, pushing whatever was holding her (and it was holding her—one limb across her abdomen, another tucked beneath her shoulder) off, seeking reprieve. But just as soon as her heart flew to her throat at the thought of capture, a ghost of a memory fills her mind: Bellamy’s voice, soft, wishing her goodnight.

Opening her eyes, she tilts her face up again, pulling her head back. Surely enough, there he is: the dimpled chin and stiff jaw; eyelashes fanning across the tops of his cheek, nostrils twitching as he breathes steadily in and out. Above them, a single picture window panel leaks morning light, casting the room in blue-gray glow. Clarke, tipping her head forward, gentle nudges Bellamy’s chin. When he doesn’t respond, raises her head again, her lips just inches from the underside of his jaw. She takes her lower lip between her teeth, considering whether this is even worth ending, before finally opening her mouth and breathing against his skin.

“Bellamy,” she whispers, her fingers unfurling in the fabric of his shirt, splaying across his chest. She presses down a little, trying to wake him gently. “Bellamy, it’s morning.”

The arm across her torso twitches and Bellamy’s fingers ruck the back of her shirt as he tightens his grip. His other arm, beneath her head, folds up at the elbow. When she looks up, she sees his wrist is twisted downward (she thinks of Michelangelo’s The Creation of Adam, the way adams hand tilts as God reaches for him), his fingers reaching in vain for her hair. A smile pulls at the corner of Clarke’s lips. She drums her fingertips against his chest. “Come on,” She pushes against him a little harder, curling her body away. When she looks up at him, her nose brushes his chin. Bellamy groans a little, ducking his head and tightening his grip. 

“Five more minutes,” Bellamy mumbles, his curls brushing her hairline, brow furrowing as he stubbornly refuses to open his eyes. It has been months since he (either of them, really, he knows) has gotten sleep like this—restorative and uninterrupted; comfortable, warm, safe—and he’s unwilling to give it up just yet. Clarke considers making a joke about how greedy he’s being but, no, it feels wrong to use the words ‘greedy’ and ‘Bellamy’ in the same sentence. Instead she sighs, a firm “fine” falling from her lips as she settles herself again, her eyes fixed on the pulse jumping above Bellamy’s collarbone. Without thinking, she raises her fingers to the exposed skin and runs her fingertip across it.

“Clarke,” Bellamy grunts, and Clarke pulls her hand back like she’s been burned. She makes a move to roll onto her back, and Bellamy retracts his arm from around her, but there’s not enough space not to touch her, and so he settles his fingers on her shoulder, the inside of his wrist aligned with the top of her arm. Clarke balls her hands into fists atop her stomach and stares at the ceiling. Both of them know that she doesn’t have to say sorry, but she does have to say something else.

“You know you’re leaving for a mission in a few hours, right?” Clarke asks after a pause.

“Yes, somehow I haven’t forgotten,” Bellamy answers dryly, retracting his hand from her shoulder so he can scrub at his face, which is still slack with sleep. Opening his eyes, he lets his other arm fall somewhere above them, resting in Clarke’s hair. His gaze finds her profile, and Bellamy can see the tension in her jaw, the pulse in her throat quick as she swallows and swallows and swallows. He returns his other hand to her shoulder, tapping his fingers lightly.

“And you’re going to come back?” Clarke asks, her voice smaller, her mouth a hard line at the edges. Bellamy raises a brow as Clarke closes her eyes for the answer.

“I’m not the one with the history of leaving,” Bellamy starts gruffly, leading Clarke to laugh in response. She turns her face toward him, and they stare at each other for what Bellamy could imagine his eons. He tries to keep his look even, though his heart continues to hammer away in his chest. He remembers the night before, the words against the back of her neck. He swallows.

“You know that’s not what I mean,” Clarke responds finally, a sad smile pulling at her lips. Stretching an arm across her body, she rests her palm against the side of his neck, her thumb pressing his cheek. Bellamy’s skin warms beneath her touch, eyes widening slightly, and he slips his hand from her shoulder.

“I’ll be fine. Always am.” He nods and gives her what should be an easy smirk but isn’t, and so he licks his lips to cover it, his eyes finally breaking what might as well have been a staring contest as he glances away. The flutter of Bellamy’s eyelashes deepens Clarke smile, though he doesn’t know that then. “Don’t worry about it, Clarke,” he adds, as he looks back up, his fingers finding her shoulder again. A soft squeeze. “Really…how many times have we done this before?”

“Never after making a list of people I’ve chosen to live,” she says quickly, and Bellamy watches as her tongue flicks across her lower lip. “After putting you on it,” and when his eyes return to hers, she adds, “and having you put me on it.” Her gaze flickers to his mouth as she says that last part, and he starts to say her name, a warning, a condemnation. Sirens are going off in his head. Her thumb jumps at his jaw, her body twists toward him. Bellamy takes a deep breath.

“I’m not making another list,” She mutters, given a nearly imperceptible shake of her head as she tilts her face closer to his, their noses brushing. Bellamy’s fingers tighten on her shoulder as if to remind himself this is real. He watches her eyes close, her mouth open. Tenderly, tentatively, she presses her mouth to his. They give a sort of mutual gasp, or maybe a sigh of relief. But Bellamy doesn’t even have time to close his eyes before she pulls away again.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke says, ripping her hand from his face to cover her own. 

Bellamy laughs as he, too, rolls over on to his back. “That’s one way to make sure I come home.”

“Fuck, shut up, I know,” Clarke mutters, taking her lip between her teeth. Bellamy watches Clarke out of the corner of his eye, unable to resist the smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. Clarke lets out a huff of annoyance. “My timing really is impeccable,” she adds, slowly drawing her hands away from her face.

Bellamy, turning toward her, rises up on an elbow. “Clarke,” he murmurs, and Clarke turns her face up toward him. The look he gives her—all freckles and dark eyes lightened with something, cheeks warm from sleep or something more—is practically indescribable. Clarke, this time, is holding her breath. Bellamy leans down, and Clarke can’t help but have her hands meet him halfway. As his mouth covers hers, she sighs against his lips, her fingers sliding into his curls, getting a grip on the back of his neck. Bellamy grunts and, pulling back, shakes her loose, because he knows that as soon as either of them gets ahold of the other, neither is letting go.

As he draws back from her, he doesn’t open his eyes, and neither does she. Both of them, while unable to hold onto each other, want to hold onto the moment just a bit longer.

“I’ll come back Clarke,” he mutters, allowing his eyes to open just a crack. He looks at her looking at him, and he can’t help but smile. He uses his free hand to stroke some stray hairs from her face, a movement of affection he has only gotten to give in moments of relieved terror. This is a new feeling. He thinks of the words from the night before—the three little words, how light the felt on his lips. But he doesn’t say them here, because there’s a promise in it that won’t exist if he can’t keep the promise to come back first. He’ll cross that bridge when he gets to it. He wonders, though, if there’s anything more to say. He furrows his brow, thinking.

Clarke can see the gears turning. She raises a hand to his face to still him. His gaze returns to hers, his eyes wide, prepared, reverent and waiting. She imagines her look must be more of the same. She shakes her head, unable to resist the grin spreading across her face. “You better.”

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments deeply appreciated. thinking i could continue this after 4x05? maybe? let me know what you think?


End file.
